


can't do without you

by whispersinthedark



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: M/M, and maybe a little more, basically angst with some smutty bits tossed in for good measure, but Canon Divergent, like kisses him......a lot, newt is desperately in love as per usual, not an au, the crank party scene but Better, tommy kisses newt instead of brenda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 19:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14026740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispersinthedark/pseuds/whispersinthedark
Summary: For one brief instant Newt thinks, wildly, that Tommy must've gotten infected somehow, that's he's Cranking out and lunging forward to take a big juicy bite out of Newt's neck - but that thought evaporates as quickly as it had come as soon as he feels Tommy's lips press hot against his skin.in which Newt crashes the Crank party with the intention of executing a rescue mission, but Tommy - as usual - makes things...difficult.





	can't do without you

**Author's Note:**

> so despite the fact that my original plan was to turn my first bit of fic into a ginormous project in which I re-wrote all three of the books/movies with a newtmas-centric storyline while sticking relatively close to actual canonical events, I got bored and lazy and decided I'd much rather just pick out all my favorite bits and pieces and do those and change them up however I please. hence: this Trash.
> 
> ya'll.......I should try writing some fluff sometime. I kinda fuckin killed myself with some parts of this fic. 
> 
> anyway - enjoy (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ✧ﾟ･: *

* * *

 

Newt is deep in the heart of the Crank city, rounding the corner of a decrepit brick building and weaving between groups of Cranks huddled in the narrow roads, when he sees Thomas.

He’s so surprised that he stops dead in his tracks for a moment, right in the middle of the road and next to a couple of old men who leer at him from under their bunches of scraggly hair. It’s not exactly that he wasn’t expecting to run into Thomas; that’s the only reason he’s out here in the first place - to  _find_ him. Brenda, too. He supposes that he just wasn’t expecting it to be so easy.

The others are somewhere on the outskirts of the city, probably working on catching up to him by now. He’d left them behind when they stopped for a lunch break; he’d been way too anxious to eat anything, couldn’t stand the thought of even taking time to rest. He was seething with enough nervous energy and anxiety to make him sick.

He’d been so desperate to get Tommy back. Still is - but he feels a lot better about it when he’s on the move and not just sitting around on his ass.

They’d argued with him for a good while, carrying on about what an awful idea it was to split up even further - what would he do if he got lost? What would  _they_ do? How in the world would they find him? But in the end, after he’d sworn up and down to Minho that he’d follow the main road leading into the City and wouldn’t stray from its path, they let him go. And here he was. He’d kept to the main road as promised, and it had led him directly to Thomas.

Newt almost open his mouth and starts to yell, but at the last second, he bites it back. Thomas is surrounded by Cranks, almost all of them dressed in odd gaudy clothing and lots of costume jewelry, and not many of them look friendly, though Newt’s not sure they look exceptionally dangerous, either. Pretty much all of them look high. There’s two in particular - a strange-looking older dude who appears to be wearing eyeliner, and a blonde girl with greasy hair - who seem to have taken a particular interest in Tommy, though. Newt clenches his jaw when he sees the girl reach out and touch him, brushing her fingers across his shoulder.

He doesn’t wait for the others to catch up - it doesn’t even cross his mind to do so. There’s no time. He skirts around the edge of the building, trying to keep to the shadows, but it’s hard - the sun is in the middle of the sky, baking the ruined city beneath it with unadulterated heat and harsh light, making it difficult to be sneaky. But Newt does the best he can, darting across the street and squatting behind the rusty corpse of an old car that’s sticking out of an alleyway only a few dozen feet away from where Thomas - and Brenda, too, he sees - are standing. He’s close enough to hear them now; he manages to catch the last bit of whatever the older man is saying.

“...think they might be inside. Here...drink this.”

“What is it?” he hears Thomas ask.

“The price of admission,” the man replies.

 _Oh, God, Tommy, no_ , Newt thinks despondently. The urge to stand up and call out to the boy is overwhelming, but he  _can’t_ ; he’s no match for dozens of pissed-off Cranks, not when his only weapon is a goddamned rusty kitchen knife, and he’s not confident that even the three of them fighting together would have better odds. He has no idea what the man is offering, but whatever it is, Newt’s sure it’s nothing good.  _Don’t drink it, don’t_  -

“Drink it!” the man shrieks, shoving a small glass bottle in their faces, and Newt groans softly in despair when Brenda snatches it away and takes a large swallow, then passes it to Thomas so he can do the same. The man then giggles, sounding a little hysterical, and claps them on the shoulders. “All right,” he says. “You two join the party.”

Then he pushes the both of them through a dark curtain draped over a doorway, and they disappear from sight.

At the mention of the word  _party_ , Newt suddenly realizes that he can hear music coming from somewhere. The from behind the curtain-covered doorway, he guesses. He’s not sure how he missed it before. It’s faint, but definitely there, a quick, racing beat and the thumping of bass. It makes the back of Newt’s neck prickle with unease - what the hell is going on? There’s a  _party_?

Newt keeps watching, his fingernails digging into his palms, as the man cackles and leans over to whisper something in the blonde girl’s ear. She smiles surreptitiously, then turns to offer the bottle to a bunch of kids lounging nearby, who immediately begin grabbing for it, clearly desperate for a taste of whatever’s inside. She lets each of them take a couple of gulps, then plucks the bottle from their grasp and takes a sip herself. Newt feels a little relieved at that; so at least it’s most likely not poisonous, whatever it is.

The man throws his head back and yelps with high-pitched laughter as one of the kids stumbles and falls to the ground, kicking up dust. The girl yanks him back to his feet, then ushers the group through the same covered entrance that Tommy and Brenda had vanished through, and then, finally, follows them into the building. The man trails after her, hopping from one foot to the other in some sort of weird, fidgety dance. Newt lets out a harsh breath when they’re gone.

He doesn’t waste any more time.

There’s still a bunch of Cranks milling about outside, but he’s pretty convinced now that they’re not interested in fighting. As dazed as they all look, he’s not sure if they’ll even take notice of him. Regardless, it’s a risk he’s going to take. He’s going to get Tommy back,  _now_.

He steps out from behind the car and begins to make his way over to the doorway, taking care to appear as nonchalant as possible, keeping one hand in his pocket, gripping his knife. He winds his way around a couple of grimy-looking young women sitting on the ground, giggling and painting each other’s faces with what appears to be soot and ash. He can feel the bass thudding in the ground beneath his feet a dozen feet away.

He’d expected it to be cooler inside the dark room, but if anything it’s even hotter. It’s packed full of bodies, most of them scantily clothed. Bits of bare skin and teeth flash in the gloom as the Cranks inside writhe and twist to the rhythm of the music. Newt’s never seen anything like it before, and it’s a little overwhelming. A hand reaches out of the crowd and thrusts a bottle into his face, one that looks very much like the bottle Thomas had guzzled from, but he ignores it, ducks under it and begins to shove his way through the crowd. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but he figures Tommy can’t have gone far, and once he finds him all they’ll have to do is grab Brenda and get the fuck out of this place without drawing any attention to themselves. He’s a little apprehensive about the last part, because Tommy definitely has a bit of a track record of drawing attention to himself, but Newt’s feeling pretty hopeful at the moment.

So far, so good.

He’s busy scanning the sea of faces surrounding him as he shoves his way through the crowd, and when his feet get tangled up in something big and soft strewn across the floor, he nearly shrieks and falls to the ground. He almost kicks at it automatically, his mind having jumped to the conclusion that it’s a fully gone Crank waiting to sink its teeth into someone’s leg, or some sort of dangerous animal, maybe, but he doesn’t get the chance. He stumbles backward - his bad leg giving out on him - before he can do anything else, and it’s a good thing he does, because when he regains his footing and stares down at the object slumped on the ground in front on him, he realizes it’s not an animal or a Crank at all.

It’s Tommy.

Newt’s heart fucking  _stops_ , stutters - and then starts beating again at a furious, frightening rate. The music, the screams and laughs of the Cranks, every bit of background noise seems to cut off all at once, and in a breathless rush, Newt falls to his side and immediately presses a couple of fingers to Tommy’s neck, searching desperately for his pulse. When he feels it - the blessed fluttering of Tommy’s heart - on his fingertips, he practically wheezes with relief.

Uncertainly, he presses a hand to Tommy’s cheek, which is hot to the touch and smeared with dirt. Newt knows they need to move, but he stares for a few moments anyway. It’s kinda totally beyond him how anyone can manage to look so tired and so filthy and yet so beautiful at the same time.

A moment later, he clenches his jaw with determination and reaches out to grab Tommy’s arms. If Newt has to haul him out of here while he’s unconscious, so be it - he’ll fucking do it. He’ll do whatever it takes. Then they can come back for Brenda as soon as Tommy’s safe. But out of nowhere, and only as soon as Newt’s got a good grip on him, Tommy begins to flail, whimpering, using his feet to try and push himself away. It’s kind of heartbreaking to watch. Newt grits his teeth when one of Tommy’s hands smacks him in the face, but he doesn’t let go.

“Tommy, you’re okay!” Newt gasps, using every bit of his strength to pull the boy up and off the ground. “ _You’re okay!_ It’s me, Tommy! It’s Newt. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Thomas lurches forward and grabs blindly at Newt’s shirt, tugging him closer. He leans forward and pushes his forehead to Newt’s chest, and then, finally, he stills.

“Newt. Newt, Newt, Newt,” he mumbles, and Newt feels Tommy tighten his grip on his shirt, bunching it up in his fists. He looks up at Newt with bloodshot, half-lidded eyes and says, “Are you real?”

“Yes, Tommy,” Newt says back. He can smell the alcohol on Tommy’s breath, realizes that that’s what was in the bottle. He has the sudden urge to laugh, but he can also feel himself panicking a little. Tommy’s thrown a real wrench in his rescue plan by being bloody fucking  _hammered._  “I’m real. We gotta get out of here, Tommy - can you stand up?”

But his question is ignored. “Gotta make sure,” is all he gets in reply, before Thomas is pulling at Newt’s shirt and leaning forward, open-mouthed, aiming for Newt’s neck.

For one brief instant Newt thinks, wildly, that Tommy must've gotten infected somehow, that's he's Cranking out and lunging forward to take a big juicy bite out of Newt's neck - but that thought evaporates as quickly as it had come as soon as he feels Tommy's lips press hot against his skin.

The other boy pulls back after a moment, looks up with the same half-lidded gaze as before, but this time he smiles. It’s a goofy, lopsided grin. “You taste real,” Tommy slurs, sounding pleased - and then he leans back in and continues mouthing at Newt’s jugular.

Newt may not be drunk, but regardless, he can’t help himself - he groans right into Tommy’s damp hair. They’ve barely had the chance to touch since they escaped Jansen’s fortress, where they’d only managed to steal a few minutes in the bathroom to trade rough kisses and sloppy blowjobs. And when was the last time before that? He tries to remember, but the past several days all blend into one another in a non-stop jumble of fear, stress, and yeah, lots of glances shared between the two of them that make Newt wish they were alone.

He knows it’s a bad idea -  _such_ a bad idea - but he reaches up a hand anyway and nudges the other boy’s chin up and forward so that he can kiss Tommy’s mouth. It’s desperate, and a little ruthless - Tommy bites hard on his lower lip, and Newt bites back, and one of them begins to bleed a little, but Newt’s not sure which of them it is and he doesn’t really care. All he cares about, at the moment, is compressing all of the wishing and wanting he’s suffered over the past few weeks and letting every bit of it go in the blissful, numbing form of kissing Tommy until he can no longer breathe.

Tommy’s leaning on him pretty heavily, now, and Newt suddenly finds himself stumbling backward, his arms pinwheeling through the air, but Tommy doesn’t miss a beat; just holds Newt close and pushes forward until Newt has his back to a wall and Tommy’s leg wrenched up between his thighs. He can feel that’s Tommy’s hard, and he’s almost a little amused at that; wonders briefly if whatever it was that Tommy drank is making him like this, so needy and wanton right out in the open. It doesn’t really matter if it is, Newt guesses, because _he’s_ hard, too, and he certainly doesn’t have the same excuse. He’s sober as can be, and there _shouldn’t_ be anything sexy about being groped in a filthy, sweltering basement surrounded by filthy, sweaty Cranks - but his dick quite obviously disagrees.

And, well. When’s the next time they’re gonna have an opportunity like this?

Tommy’s still kissing him, but softer now, more slowly, and pressing himself against Newt as if his life depends on it. Newt kisses him back, lifts one hand to fist Tommy’s hair and slips the other up under the boy’s shirt. He flattens his palm against the warm skin he find there and presses his fingertips into the chasms between Tommy’s ribs. It’s not the first time he’s touched Tommy like this, and it’s as good as it always is, but it’s not enough - he feels lightheaded with desire for  _more._  He wants to be able to take his time with his touching; he wants to press his lips to every inch of Tommy’s body, leaving marks along the way, paying extra attention to the spots he likes best. He wants to kiss and bite his way across valleys and plains of bare skin and then he wants to fuck Tommy rough and quick. And then again, soft and slow.

They’ve been running and fighting for the lives from the very first time Newt had kissed him, the night before they fought their way out of the Maze. They certainly haven’t had any time to relax since then, and even less of that time to themselves, which means there’s been too many frantic, rushed kisses behind half-closed doors when no one’s looking; too many hurried handjobs with Tommy trying to muffle his soft moans against Newt’s neck and Newt choking with his own effort to be quiet, biting his own lip hard enough to draw blood. Too many times that they’ve pressed against each other in the soft sand of the Scorch at night while everyone else is sleeping, moving against each other until they’ve both come right in their pants as if they’re 13 fucking years old.

But Newt supposes it’ll have to do for now.

It’s not enough, but it’s still good. So,  _so_ good.

Tommy pulls away abruptly and stares at Newt for a moment - just looks at him, and Newt looks back as he struggles to catch his breath. Tommy looks totally wrecked - hair wild, lips bitten red, pupils blown - and it shouldn’t turn Newt on as much as it does. He sucks in air only for it come rushing out again when Tommy leans back in and brings his lips to Newt’s ear. His breath is damp and hot against the skin there, but still, Newt shivers.

“Wish I could fuck you,” Tommy mutters, and then sighs. He sounds genuinely upset. Newt lets out a groan, has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from asking  _what’s stopping you_? That would be...bad. Tommy sighs again, pushes his nose against the soft, fine hairs at the nape of Newt’s neck and runs his tongue over the skin there, then pulls back a little, presses his lips to Newt’s collarbone.

“That’s okay,” he says into Newt’s shoulder, his voice muffled, and then Newt feels him smile. “I’ll blow you instead.”

“Wait -  _what_?” Newt pants, but even if Tommy hears him, he doesn’t listen, just begins to sink to the ground. “Tommy, not  _here_  - are you bloody  _crazy_?” Newt grabs at his shirt, trying to wrench him back upright, but it’s too late; Tommy’s already on his knees, leaning forward to press his open mouth to the bulge in the front of Newt’s pants and reaching up to tug at the waistband, which is held securely in place - thankfully - by a worn leather belt. Newt can’t help but moan, embarrassed, desperately hoping no one can hear him over the music.

He’s about to give up and twist his fingers in Tommy’s hair when he looks up and notices that the room they’re in is significantly brighter than it seemed only moments ago. He realizes an instant later that it’s because of the doorway - the curtain has been torn down, apparently, and there’s an excruciatingly bright white rectangle of light in its place that makes him squint when he tries to look at it. With Tommy out of the way, Newt has a clear view of it, and he really wishes he didn’t, because it’s hurting his eyes pretty bad. He’s lucky that he does, though - and lucky too that Tommy hasn’t progressed past struggling with Newt’s belt - because seconds later, someone comes rushing through it, blocking out the light for a moment before they pass over the threshold, and only seconds after that, Newt recognizes the figure as Minho.

Newt hears himself make some sort of horrific choked, strangled noise before he’s leaning forward, thrusting his hands into Tommy’s armpits, and hauling the boy to his feet. Tommy yelps in confusion, thrashes a bit in Newt’s grip, but Newt doesn’t let go, just wraps an arm around him tightly and begins to drag him towards that rectangle of heat and light. He actually thinks that if anyone knows about him and Tommy (though what is there to know? Newt’s not even sure himself) it’s probably Minho, but that doesn’t mean he wants to them to be  _seen_ like this. God - he’d never hear the end of it. Besides, the thought of being caught in the act  _here_ , in this raunchy Crank house, is beyond mortifying.

Minho has disappeared, lost somewhere in the sea of Cranks, but the others - Teresa, Jorge, and Fry - come sprinting through the doorway just as he reaches it. Teresa reaches out for Thomas right away, pulling him out of Newt’s arms and into hers. “Thank  _God_ ,” Newt hears her gasp, "What _happened_?" - but before he can say a word, Jorge’s got him by the shoulders and is in his face, looking panicked.

“Brenda?” he asks frantically.

“Jorge - she’s here somewhere, but she drank -”

Before Newt can finish, Jorge’s taken off, shoving Cranks aside violently as he pushes his way through a crowd that’s already dissipating now that the room is flooded with daylight.

“Stay here, okay?” Teresa is saying now, speaking to Tommy in a firm voice. She’s holding his face in both of her hands. “We’ll be right back.” She glances over at Newt helplessly before she lets go of Tommy and rushes after Jorge, weaving her way through the Cranks. Newt can hear her screaming Brenda’s name.

The two of them are left alone again, and Newt reaches out for Tommy without even realizing he’s doing it. The last thing any of them need is for the idiot to drunkenly stagger off somewhere when they’re not looking. Tommy sags into Newt’s touch - Newt has to strain to keep him on his feet. The boy brings his hands to his face, rubs at his eyes like a child would after waking up from a nap. Newt holds him a little bit tighter.

“Newt,” Tommy rasps, “Newt, I  _need_ you, please, can I -”

“ _Shut_   _up_ ,” Newt hisses - and then immediately regrets it. He’s fiercely hoping that Tommy doesn’t say a word about what they’d been doing before the others arrived, but he hadn’t meant to snap like that; his heart breaks a little bit when he looks down and sees the look of hurt on Tommy’s face. He hurriedly slips his hand down and laces his fingers with Tommy’s just for a moment and gives his hand a quick squeeze. It’s the best apology he can offer at the moment; he’ll have to do better later. His stomach clenches when he imagines the two of them alone together hours from now, picking up they’d left off, except  _he’s_  the one on his knees, showing Tommy how sorry he is. Showing him just how glad Newt is to have him back.

Later.

For now, he takes his hand back and turns, hoping to see the others making their way back over to him, preferably with Brenda in tow, so that they can fucking _get out of here_. He manages to catch sight of them, lets out of a breath of relief when he sees Minho with Brenda in his arms. Then he groans when he sees that she’s not the only one they’ve managed to find.

Jorge’s got a hold of the strange man from earlier - the one who’d forced Tommy and Brenda to drink from his bottle. And Jorge looks very, very angry with him.

“Um…” Tommy says from behind him. The boy suddenly - alarmingly - sounds very distant. “I don’t feel too good.”

Newt spins around just in time to catch him before he crumples to the floor.

 

**-**

 

Teresa helps him carry Tommy up the stairs. They’re following Jorge, who has the strange man in a chokehold as he hauls him to the second floor, and then Minho and Fry right behind, lugging a barely-conscious Brenda between the two of them. When they reach the top of the staircase, Jorge heads for the first door he sees; it’s unlocked, and he steps into the room without a word. The man he’s holding begins to howl. Whoever he is, Newt knows he’s in for a rough time.

Minho and Frypan go after him. Minho pauses for a moment before he steps over the threshold, glancing back at Newt and Teresa questioningly. “You guys good?” he asks. Newt gives him a nod, and then he’s gone.

Newt stops moving and shakes his head before Teresa can follow, too. “Somewhere a little more quiet,” he says. Teresa doesn’t ask any questions, just gives him a nod and helps him maneuver Tommy into the next room over, where they lower him gently to the floor. Afterwards, Newt has to take a moment to breathe; he lifts his hands and presses them to his face and sucks in a couple of deep, shaky breaths. He feels dizzy and nauseous. He feels bloody  _hungover,_  as if  _he_ were the one who’d taken shots of some goddamn mystery drink that somehow fucks you up in a matter of minutes.

“Who is that guy?” Newt croaks. His throat feels dry as the Scorch - he can’t remember the last time he had a sip of water. As if she’s read his mind, Teresa hands him her canteen, and he takes it gratefully, his fingers trembling as he unscrews the cap and drinks.

“That’s Marcus, I guess,” Teresa replies after a moment of silence. “We thought you knew, that you’d realized somehow. Isn’t that why you came here?”

Newt suddenly feels weirdly nervous, like he’s being put on the spot. “Um,” he says. “No. I was just making my way through the city, keeping an eye out, and then I saw Thomas. He went into that room down there, so, you know. I followed him.”

Teresa doesn’t reply, just nods again. They both jump and turn in the direction of the room next door a moment later when the screaming starts. It doesn’t sound familiar, so Newt figures it has to be Marcus. He can just barely make out Jorge’s gruff yelling over the shrieks - “ _Talk, you son of a bitch!_ ”

“You’ve got blood on you, Newt,” Teresa says suddenly. “On your lip. And your chin. Are you okay? Are you bleeding?”

“Bleeding?” Newt’s confused. “I don’t think so.” He lifts his fingers to wipe at his chin, and when he stares down at them afterwards, sure enough, they’re smeared with blood, but he’s pretty sure it’s not his.

“ _I'm_  bleeding. My lip is bleeding. It hurts,” Thomas says out of nowhere, startling the both of them. The boy is still sprawled on the dusty floorboards where they’d left him, but now he’s got his eyes open, staring sleepily up at the ceiling. To his horror, Newt feels himself flush, and his cheeks only get hotter as he remembers the two of them biting at each other’s mouths, how good it felt to sink his teeth into Tommy’s lip, to feel him squirm in response.

“Poor baby,” Newt says quickly, turning away from Teresa and heading for Thomas before he can say anything else. “Do you need a band-aid?”

But Thomas has already fallen back into unconsciousness.

He looks so tired and sick that all Newt can do for several moments is stare down at him, a lump rising in his throat. There’s dark purple smudges underneath Tommy’s eyes, looking harsh and almost a little frightening against the pale ashiness of the rest of his face. Newt remembers, abruptly, how strong and healthy Tommy had looked only weeks ago - on the day he’d led them in their escape from the Maze. He remembers touching his fingers, and then his lips - for the first time - to Tommy’s only the night before, after the Grievers had ravaged the Glade and left so many of them dead. They’d touched each other so timidly and gently at first, and then with an urgency and desperation so fierce that it had scared Newt. He remembers wondering if it was because they were both afraid they wouldn’t get another chance. That they wouldn’t live to see tomorrow.

Even then, after the horrors they’d witnessed, Tommy’s skin had been deeply tanned and warm. He’d had freckles. Newt had counted every one of them.

A moment later he lowers himself to the ground beside the boy’s head and, after crossing his legs, gently lifts Tommy’s head into his lap. He doesn’t waste any energy thinking about it or caring what Teresa might think. He just does it.

Teresa doesn’t say anything else, but Newt can see her, out of the corner of his eye, staring at the two of them with the corners of her mouth twitching as if she’s trying hard not to smile. After a minute or so, she walks away, out of the room and into the one next door, where the others are heckling Marcus, and leaves the two of them alone.

Newt lets out a long breath when she’s gone. He chews his sore lip and stares down at Tommy and, absentmindedly, lifts a hand to brush the boy’s hair off of his sweaty forehead. Then he closes his eyes and wishes fervently for Tommy to get better. He wishes for the horrible dark undereye circles to go away. He wishes for tan skin and freckles. He wishes for shared laughter, for more secret smiles and glances, for more stealthy stolen moments together in bathrooms or closets or even in the endless sand of the Scorch.

He wonders what it would be like for the two of them to fall asleep together without worrying if they’ll make it through the next day. If they’ll survive.

So he wishes for a home, too, for a place not just for him and Tommy but for all of them, where they can be happy. Where they’ll be safe. He wishes for a place with lots of green - he misses the grass and trees and lush vegetation of the Glade. He misses the ocean, too; something he’s not even sure he’s ever seen in person and only vaguely remembers existing. He dreams often, though, of standing somewhere up high, in the darkness of night, with cool salty air rushing around him and the crashing of waves in the distance, and he yearns to hear that sound again. So he wishes for a place by the sea.

He opens his eyes, stares back down at the boy in his lap and presses a hand to the boy’s chest, feels for the heartbeat he knows he’ll find there.  _I love you_ , he thinks, but he knows he’ll never say it. Not unless they find that safe place - if they ever do - if such a thing even exists. It would only make things harder.

In the end, he wishes only for more time.


End file.
